


alive in the city

by carryonthen



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Achievement Hunter Family, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Other, long gta v au, well it will be long eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4534596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonthen/pseuds/carryonthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>the future is bulletproof; the aftermath is secondary.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>michael jones is good at three things: starting over, looking tough, and blowing shit up. in the sun-drenched city of los santos, everyone knows the crime king and his boys are the real men in charge. the smallest of criminals would give their right arm to be a part of it. rival crew leaders would kill for their notoriety. but for michael, a man with no gang and a whole host of demons, all it takes is being in the right place at the right time to be catapulted into a world of crime, drugs, booze, and... video games.<br/>the rest of his life begins now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

####  -1999- 

The convenience store looked like every other convenience store on the face of the planet - shitty fluorescent lighting overhead, jacked-up prices, tall metal shelving perfect to hide behind and goof around with your friends, reading porn mags and eating most of the chips before they reached the counter to be paid for.  


But Michael didn’t have friends, not here, and today he was hiding for a very different reason.  


His big black hoodie was too hot for Los Santos, but perfect for squirrelling things away in. Keeping an eye on the convex mirror in the corner of the store, he was careful not to pack too many things into his kangaroo pocket, nothing too bulging and nothing too crinkly. He shoved candy bars into the waistband of his jeans, bottles of pop into his baggy sleeves. He glanced at the rotating display of reading glasses, thought of his mother and the way she complained about her straining eyes, and then sneered. _I’m not stealing shit for her._  


He jingled what little change he had in his sweaty palm and grabbed another chocolate bar off the shelf, in full view of the cashier this time - a slim twenty-something with tired eyes and a scraggly goatee, nose stuck in a magazine with swim-suited girls on the cover. He looked up as Michael approached, and raised one eyebrow.  


“What can I do ya for?”  


“How much is this?” Michael asked, thrusting out the chocolate.  


“Two-fifty,” the cashier said, yawning.  


Michael dropped the change on the counter and began to count it out, coin by coin, eyeing the man and hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. He hadn’t done this in ages, not since living in New Jersey, not since elementary school. Too long. What if he slipped up? What if the man had seen?  


“Shit,” the cashier said suddenly, and Michael froze, but when he looked up he saw he was half-grinning - not scowling, not moving to call the cops… grinning. “Nice shiner, little dude. Where’d you get that?”  


Michael ducked his head, shrinking into himself, and tried to shake his sweaty curls over his eye. “A kid from school,” he admitted, still doggedly counting out quarters and dimes. Small talk was better than accusations, he guessed. He set aside two dollars and fifty cents exactly and looked up, jaw tight. He squinted at the cashier’s name tag, trying to figure out if it was some kind of joke, and then asked, “The hell kind of name is Goeff?”  


The cashier looked puzzled for a split second, and then glanced down at his shirt, and swore. “It’s Geoff. _Geoff!_ Griffon, you _fuck!”_ He turned to holler into the back room, where a woman burst into laughter, and Michael saw his chance - he swiped the technically-legal chocolate bar and most of his change back, and headed towards the door at a quick pace, shoulders hunched.  


Just when he thought he was home free, Goeff - Geoff - whoever - called out. “Hey - hey, kid, stop!”  


He thought about bolting, but he had already hesitated a second too long, and half-turned, prepared for the worst. “What?”  


Geoff was quiet for a moment, staring at Michael like he couldn’t quite decide what to say, and then finally: “That kid, who gave you that black eye? You should’a hit him back. Teach him you’re nobody to fuck with.”  


Michael smiled, just slightly. “If you wanna know,” he said, “It was a girl.”  


Behind his counter, Geoff hooted with laughter. “Of course it was. Christ. Griffon, did you hear that?”  


That was Michael’s cue; he turned around and stepped out into the baking San Andreas heat, making himself walk to the edge of the parking lot before breaking into a run. Flynt and his gang were waiting in the car park around the corner just like they’d said, and all of them whooped when they saw Michael jogging towards them.  


“Did you get everything? Flynt asked coolly.  


“Uh - yeah. Pretzels, Coke, Snickers...” he handed the goods out to the other boys, and peeled off the wrapper on his own, but Flynt snatched it out of his hand before he could take a bite. “Hey!”  


“Good job, Jones,” Flynt said, his smirk almost approving. “Guess you’re not so wimpy after all. We’re going down to the pier now, and I guess you could come, too.”  


“I dunno, can I have my fuckin’ chocolate back?”  


“No.”  


Michael thought about his mother and how she’d made him promise to be home before dark, and thought about what a very long walk it was to the pier, and about how much he hated Flynt Fucking Coal and his Stupid Fucking Friends… and then he nodded. “Fine, whatever.” A boy needed friends, even if he sort of hated all of them after just three weeks. Being the new kid wasn’t easy, especially being the chubby new kid with a New Jersey accent who got socked by the smallest girl in the grade. Flynt and his gang of preadolescent thugs were better than nothing.  


Flynt grinned. “Good. Come on.”  


Michael went. 

 

 

 

#### \- 2013 - 

Los Santos was by no means a quiet city, but when the sound of a gas station exploding ripped apart the night, it usually came as a bit of a surprise.  


“What the _fuck_ happened back there?” Flynt howled the moment Michael dropped into the passenger seat. He was out of breath, clutching a black duffel bag to his chest, his eyes wild and his heart racing. He shook his head.  


“Go, go, fucking go!” He knew Flynt was mad, knew he was in serious shit, but they were in danger, too, and the older man wasn’t stupid. He floored it, peeling away from the parking garage in a getaway car only half as full as it should have been. “I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “I’m so sorry.”  


“Sorry doesn’t mean shit to me, Jones! What happened?”  


“The stickies went off too soon. I don’t know - maybe Danny fucked up with the timer, maybe someone panicked out there, I don’t know. The place blew while I was still inside, I didn’t see what happened and I had to shoot the guy and get out back, that’s why it took so long...” He trailed off, still clutching his bag, still trying to process what the hell had just happened.  


Flynt relaxed a miniscule amount, but he was still silent for a very long minute, driving fast and erratic as if the cops were already right on their tail instead of a dozen blocks back at the scene of the crime. 

“And Danny?” he asked finally, staring intensely ahead. “Kev?”  


Michael shook his head, an unexpected stab of grief hitting him straight in the chest. “They were outside keeping watch like we’d said. Up close and personal with the gas and the bombs - I’m sorry,” he said again. And he was - he held no real love for Danny or Kev, both of them thuggish bullies who only grudgingly accepted Michael because Flynt did all those years ago in middle school, but Danny was whip-smart and Kev was funny, Danny lived with his clueless, sweet old grandmother and Kev had a baby on the way who’d never know her daddy. It wasn’t fair, Michael thought suddenly, scrubbing at his eyes with a grimy, bloodied hand. Nothing about this business was fair.  


Flynt let out a heavy sigh. “Me, too.” He merged onto the highway, his entire body tight as a bowstring, and Michael wasn’t quite sure what to anticipate until the other man relaxed all at once, sprawling back in his seat casual as can be, his hand loose on the wheel and his head flung back. “Whatever. A bigger cut for us, I guess. Did you get the darts?”  


Michael stared at him. “It’s not _whatever._ Two guys just died back there -”  


“Guys die every day,” Flynt argued, his jaw working. “Why should this be any different?”  


“Because they’re our guys,” Michael said, but he could see it was no use - Flynt was building up his armour before his eyes, shutting him out, turning it off and forcing himself back into the old guise of being cool, calm, and collected… back into heartlessness. Michael sighed. “Whatever. Yeah, I got your fucking darts.” _While our friends were dying,_ he added to himself, and threw the pack of cigarettes into Flynt’s lap.  


“Atta boy, Jonesy.” Flynt grinned and flicked open the pack expertly with one hand, and held it between his lips without even lighting it like the world’s greatest douchebag. “Now, what do you say- head out to Sandy Shores, lay low for a while? I know you gotta miss those fuckin’ nasty trailer park chicks.”  


“Not overly,” Michael admitted, still too frazzled and shellshocked to play along with Flynt’s jokes. But if Flynt had heard, he didn’t show it, or just plain didn’t care. He leaned forwards and turned on the radio, spinning immediately to a news channel recapping the robbery, and smiled.  


“It’s a long haul to Blaine County, boy-o,” he said. “Get comfy.”  


So Michael did - he shoved his bag in the backseat, cranked his seat back until he was almost lying flat, and slept.

 

And Michael dreamed. 

He dreamed of New Jersey, of the days before his father left, of the times his mother still smiled and ruffled his hair and said his name with light and love in his voice. He dreamed of the long, sun-drenched days at Six Flags the summer his grandmother bought them season passes, and finally being tall enough by the end of August to ride the big coasters with his dad. He dreamed of his elementary school friends and their stupid, petty little attempts at crime before everything went wrong, of riding their bikes along the shore, of how he pedalled harder and faster than anyone, trying to ride away from his parents fighting at home, away from the divorce, away from the moving boxes and the 4 a.m. flight and starting all over when he never wanted it to end in the first place… 

 

“Wakey wakey!” 

Michael jolted awake with a curse. The car was bright, the horizon flat and sandy, and the sky blindingly blue - this was Blaine County, alright. “The fuck was that for?” he snapped, temper flaring as the memories of last night flooded back into his mind. 

“We’re five minutes away. Brighten up, slap some colour into this chubby cheeks of yours. Daisy is waiting.” Flynt waggled his eyebrows, grinning as if this was some great treat instead of the worst thing Michael could possibly imagine. Daisy was an old flame of Flynt’s who had her sights firmly trained on Michael ever since he grew up a little and shed his baby fat. She also had no eye teeth, and always smelled vaguely of warm beer. 

Their Sandy Shores hideout was Michael’s least favourite of the lot, including the scummy basement apartment in Chamberlain Hills and the ‘safe house’ involving the two of them camping out in a car on the beach for days, slumming around in sunglasses and swim shorts because it was Flynt’s idea of “acting casual”. Three trailers sat in a triangle, cramped together on the same lot, all of them filthy and rusted and falling apart with a barbecue set up in the makeshift courtyard between them that had never, ever worked. He felt dirty just looking at the place. He climbed out of the car, squinting in the late morning sun, and scratched at his forearm like he could already feel the sand and the grime settling into his skin. 

“What’s up, trailer trash?” Flynt said, much too loudly. Michael half expected to be greeted with curses and gunshots, but instead after just a few seconds the trailer door banged open and Daisy herself came clomping down the steps in much-too-big rubber boots, her gappy smile wide. 

“Mikey!” 

Holy shit. Michael tolerated her hug for a second less than what was polite, but then, he’d never really cared about polite when it came to just about anyone in this crowd - only Flynt, and that was because he knew exactly what lines he could and couldn’t cross with his shitty crime boss. He wriggled out of her hug, hating the feeling of Flynt’s grin on his back, and made himself smile. “Hey, Daisy. My room still set up?” “Absolutely.” Daisy batted her eyelashes in a way that made Michael’s stomach roll. “You tired? Want me to come tuck you in?” 

Flynt snorted. 

“It’s been a long night, Daze, I think I’m just gonna settle in. Alone,” he added, squashing the look of hope on her face in an instant. 

“Aw, come on, dude. You slept like a baby all the way up here, come unwind with us. Debrief. Decompress. De-sober.” Flynt clapped him on the back hard enough to make his knees buckle, and his temper flared. Flynt hadn’t done shit all night - he sat in his car a block away from the action, leaving everyone else to do his dirty work, and didn’t even give a damn when two of his oldest friends got blown to smithereens. That was what he’d always done, making everyone else do his bidding without any care for the consequences - he sent his boys in to steal for him when he was perfectly capable on his own, got test answers from the class nerds even though he was smart as a whip, and all the while sat back in his seat with a smarmy grin on his face, lording over anyone stupid enough to get sucked into his orbit. Michael jerked away from him, his teeth on edge, and hoisted his duffel bag onto his shoulder. 

“Fuck off. I’m going to bed.” 

Flynt let out a loud, exasperated sigh, and threw his arm around Daisy’s skinny shoulders. “Fine, whatever. You know where to find us.” 

_Probably in Daisy’s bed, fucking like the whole damn trailer park can’t hear._ He shoved past the others and up the brittle metal steps to his trailer. It was just as he’d left it, with one small difference - Kev was missing. His little room was still there, his bed still unmade and his beer bottles on the floor next to his underwear and a broken set of earphones. But it was so, so empty. Sniffling, Michael scrubbed at his eyes with the back of one dirty hand and moved on to his own, even smaller room. 

He dropped onto the mattress and it groaned in protest, and again when he tossed his duffel bag onto it at his side. Almost mechanically, he unzipped the bag and began to pull out fistfuls of cash, most of the bills loose and crumpled; the coins jangling at the bottom of the bag would have to wait for later. Counting their take like this used to be one of their favourite activities, and a victorious one - they’d split the cash evenly, and then trade each other twenties and tens, arguing over who got the pristine ones and who ended up with wrinkled bills, as if it mattered. They’d gamble with it. They’d use the stiffer ones to cut up cocaine and the flimsier ones to help them roll joints, they’d take crew road trips to the Vanilla Unicorn and watch hundreds of dollars disappear into the g-strings of strippers, or rent out individual hotel rooms and keep expensive hookers company until dawn, sipping on the best alcohol money could buy. They’d lived like kings - slimy, piggish kings, granted, the kind of king Michael never really wanted to be, but kings nonetheless. 

Well - lords, maybe. Dukes. Everyone knew who the king of Los Santos was, and nobody was eager to challenge him for the title. 

He had hoped that doing something so monotonous would help, to distract him or keep his focus set on anything but the events of the night. But the grime under his nails distracted him with every bill he set out, and there was no-one else to share it with. There would be no celebration, because Michael flat-out refused to participate in anything Flynt came up with, and the math was making his head hurt even worse than it already was. Doggedly, he finished counting out the money, and took an extra forty dollars from Flynt’s stack for himself as compensation for his absolute douchebaggery, and without even so much as kicking off his shoes, flopped onto his back and fell asleep on top of the covers. 

 

He woke to a deep bass riff and a man’s voice whooping, making the walls of the twenty-year-old trailer shake and rattle. Groaning, Michael rolled over where he lay and twisted his fingers into his curls, holding his head tight - it throbbed with the music, and with his eyes still squeezed shut he stumbled to his feet and wobbled into the tiny bathroom in search of painkillers. He emptied more than what was probably necessary into his hand, and downed them with a mouthful of foul-tasting water from the tap. After a moment’s consideration, he gathered another handful and splashed his face a few times, rubbing at his cheeks to wake himself up, tugging at his hair and scratching his scalp. When he finally looked up to meet his reflection’s gaze in the cracked mirror, leaning heavily on either side of the sink, he almost didn’t recognize the man looking back at him. He looked haunted, with dark circles under his angry eyes, grit and ash clinging to his skin from the explosions, and without his permission the memories came crashing back - the windows had shattered, all of them, merchandise ripped off the shelves, a blast of hot air and noise knocking him back onto his ass… panicked and wounded, the cashier had run for the back door and Michael had almost let him, he was so disoriented, but he managed to put the poor old man on the floor before he could escape… he shot the cash open and filled his bag, ears ringing, and slipped out the back door so he wouldn’t have to wade through the carnage outside, miraculously unscathed and shaken beyond words… he had done this, his bombs... 

He slapped himself, hard, jerking back to the present. It felt like years ago, but judging by his watch it had been less than a day. He had done his job the way he always did. Someone else down the line fucked up, Kev or Danny or someone else completely… and in any case, there was no use blaming himself. It was over. It was done. 

And the music was driving him insane. 

Rage bubbling over, he stormed out of the bathroom and kicked the flimsy front door open to investigate. He had slept far longer than he’d meant to; late afternoon was slipping into evening, the mosquitos coming out in full force as the sun began to set. In the triangular little courtyard between their trailers, someone had finally ditched the barbeque and set up a fire pit, and Flynt fucking Coal sat on a lawn chair in front of the blaze, a girl on his lap and another standing dutifully at his side, his arm wrapped around her waist. A few other men stood around - all of them secondary members of Flynt’s crew they only called in when they needed guns, weed, or both - and a significantly higher number of girls, sipping on beers and smoking. A stereo in the grass belched music out into the muggy summer air, and the first thing Michael did after taking the scene in fully was kick it hard with his steel-toe boot, completely crunching the left speaker and putting a quick stop to the party. 

Everyone else started and stared at him, their expressions ranging from startled to angry, but Flynt, ever-calm, simply pulled his sunglasses down half an inch and peered at him over the top of them, halfway to grinning. “Mikey!” 

“What the fuck is going on here?” Michael demanded, gesturing wildly. 

Flynt shrugged. “It’s a party, boy-o! Come and have a drinksie. Celebrate.” 

“Celebrate what? Our fucking friends are dead!” 

Flynt rolled his eyes - actually, honest to god rolled his eyes, and it was all Michael could do not to race across the ten feet between them and seize his arrogant, cocksucking throat. “And we’re celebrating their lives, idiot. And their sacrifice. And the take! Which was - how much again?” 

“Is that all you care about? Do you not realize how completely fucked up this is?” Michael spat, seeing red. “No - of course you fucking don’t. All you care about is getting other people to do whatever the fuck you tell them to, and reaping the god damn benefits - you never gave a shit about Danny or Kev, and you sure as fuck don’t care about me either!” 

“Michael!” Flynt exclaimed, apparently aghast, and removed his hand from the ass of the girl next to him to clutch at his chest. “How could you say that? You’re my best -” 

“Don’t you fucking do that,” Michael interrupted, his voice choked - either with fury or with tears, he wasn’t sure, he was so fucking mad and so fucking destroyed at the same time, and god damn, he never thought he’d miss those goons like this. “Don’t you fucking say it, Coal, I’m nothing to you. Nobody here means anything to you more than what’s in their fucking wallets.” 

At last, Flynt seemed to realize that this was more serious than he could keep up with, because his grin slipped and he began to get up. “Mike -” 

But Michael had already stormed back inside his trailer, back to his room. He wasn’t even planning on leaving until he had most of his possessions shoved in the duffel bag with his cash, but once he had zipped up his running shoes and his speakers and his meagre book collection, it all made sense. He’d take a car, the first car he came across, and drive until he couldn’t anymore. He’d stop by Danny’s grandmother’s house, drop in on Kev’s expectant girlfriend, tell them what happened and give them the money their boys should have brought home by now. And then… something. Hiding. Moving on. Back to Jersey where he belonged. 

He burst out the front door, but Flynt was waiting for him there in a sect of the party that had spilled out onto the pathetic lawn. Another upside to this - he’d never have to set foot in ass-backwards Sandy Shores again. “Hey,” Flynt said, his hands held up in a meagre show of peace. “Hey, buddy, don’t do something you’re gonna regret. Come on back, have a beer -” 

“No.” His voice had shook before, heavy with emotion, but it sure as shit wasn’t shaking now. “I’m not your god damn buddy. I’m done, Flynt. I’m leaving and I don’t ever wanna see your rat fuck face again, so don’t you try and stop me.” 

For a split second, the mask cracked again and he could see whatever emotions Flynt kept bubbling beneath his skin - pain, and betrayal, and fear above all else - but then it was gone. “You can’t. Not after everything, this isn’t how it works, you can’t escape this life and you’ll never - never get a sweeter deal than you’ve got with me.” 

“Fucking watch me.” Michael reached into the pocket of his jacket, grabbed the fistful of bills leftover from what he’d taken, and threw them at Flynt’s face. “There’s your take, asshole. Since that’s all you care about.” The wind picked up the paper and sent them fluttering around the yard, and there was a brief scramble while everyone standing around tried to snatch them out of the air - including, despicably, Flynt, before he caught himself. 

“Jones, stop -” 

Michael shoved past him, and god, did it feel good. So he cut his losses completely, turned, and socked Flynt in the jaw with all of his might, flooring him. 

By the time he recovered, Michael had his keys in one bloodied fist and was ripping out of the driveway without looking back. 

He drove in furious silence to the town limits, and only then did he turn on the stereo, roll down the windows, and allow himself to breathe his last lungful of sandy desert air. Immediately, it seemed, he felt lighter. It was over. He had no idea what came next, not really, but it was over, and that was what mattered. He’d never been more sure of anything in his life - this was right, what he was doing. He should have done it ages ago. He was free. 

Still, he didn’t let himself smile. Not so soon, not in light of the past sixteen hours, not with his friends dead and life as he knew it unraveling behind him in the dust. Instead he just rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, set his jaw, and drove.


	2. i.

#### one year later

"So like - how do dogs know when to stop growing?" 

There was a loud groan from the passenger seat, and Ray buried his face in his hands. "Jesus Christ, not this again." 

"I'm serious!" Gavin cried, with an indignant sort of squawk. "Some dogs are bigger than others, and how do they know - you know, which - kind they are?" 

"You're so fucking stupid," Ray mumbled. 

Their earpieces crackled with static, and G's voice growled in their ears. "Stop fucking around, assholes. What are you waiting for?" 

"There's uh - a guy inside," Ray said uncomfortably. "I was waiting for him to leave -" 

"Ah, good guy Ray over here," G teased, and a deep chuckle in the background told them Jack was hanging around, too, listening in. “I don’t give a fuck if anyone’s inside. Do your fucking job or face the consequences.” 

Ray gave a heavy sigh, and rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks, amping himself up. “Okay. Come on, Vav, let’s get this shit over with.” 

The night air was warm and sweet, and the road was blessedly quiet when Gavin and Ray climbed out of their car and started across the way. This would be their third hit of the night - there had been a bank and a convenience store earlier that day, and now G wanted expensive liquor, 100% off. It was an endurance challenge, Ray supposed, another of the tests G was putting he and the Brit through to see if they were worth of sticking around the crew. 

Assassinations, pick-pocketing, small jobs he could do sober… that was his specialty. But the high was wearing off by now, and paranoia was jittering along all of his nerves, making him glance around nervously as if the cops they had managed to shake twice already that day were about to come tearing around the corner. As if Jack hadn’t already disabled their computer systems, creating mild chaos and making it nigh impossible for them to respond even half as quickly as usual. As if their track record wasn’t already gleaming. He had been with the crew for four months now, and even then G didn’t seem to trust either of them, always asking them to prove their worth. Then again, Ray thought, G didn’t trust anybody. 

Gavin’s hands curled into fists and spread out again, reaching and clenching, thrumming with anxiety even worse than his Hispanic counterpart’s. He skimmed his holstered gun with his fingertips, reassuring himself that he was still armed and ready to handle whatever came at him - although the thought of dealing with a civilian in his usual way was enough to give him pause. 

The liquor store was cool and quiet, soft jazz playing over the PA. Ray weaved through the aisles towards the shelves by the cash, and Gavin sidled towards the bystander, pretending to peruse a selection of rum and sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He was a shorter, stockier man of about his age, with broad shoulders and tight curls and a square jaw. He was holding a bottle of whiskey up to the light, squinting to read the label, but with a start Gavin realized the stranger was watching him, too. 

He opened his mouth to say something - to warn him, maybe, to urge him to go before it got messy, but it was too late - with a deep, overly dramatic shout of “Give me your moneyyyy!” Ray fired a shot into the air, and both men moved into action at the same time. Gav drew his handgun and aimed it at the stranger, who was already pointing a gun of his own straight between Gavin’s eyes. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Michael shot, as incredulous as he was furious. This was his job - he’d been scoping the place out, he knew when they’d have the most cash on hand, and tonight was the night he was finally going to get off his ass and rob the joint. This was what he got for being a slacker, he guessed. “This is my hit.” 

“No it bloody well isn’t,” Gavin retorted, his voice a little higher than he’d like, and removed the safety before he could debate any further. “Get out of here or I’ll shoot your damn brains out.” 

Up front, Ray was still shouting macho nonsense at the terrified-looking cashier, who was shovelling money into Ray’s bag and, most likely, pissing his pants. 

Michael narrowed his eyes. Whatever - it wasn’t like he had all that much to lose. He fired a shot at the taller man, missing on purpose so that it zipped just over his left shoulder. He squawked again in fear, jumping and losing his head for a second long enough for Michael to dodge around him, shoving him into a shelving unit, and run towards the cash register. 

“Don’t try and be a fucking hero, my man - huh?” Ray noticed the newcomer a second later than he should have, and Michael at least had the pleasure of seeing the bewilderment on his face before he reared back and hit him. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, and Michael immediately trained his gun on the very pale cashier, who was frozen with fear. 

“Did I tell you to stop?” 

By the time Gavin had recovered from the carnage of broken glass and leaking alcohol, and Ray had gotten to his feet again, the bag was more or less full. 

His window for escape narrowing rapidly, Michael lunged over the counter and snatched the backpack away, and slung it over his shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with ya,” he snarked, and turned for the door - only to find himself staring down the barrels of two guns. 

“Pretty sure that’s ours,” Ray said, calm and chipper as could be, and when he noticed the cashier running for the door he turned and shot him, point-blank, blood and grey matter exploding in a mist behind him. He was dead before he hit the ground. Michael swallowed. 

“Over my dead body, chumps. This was my heist.” 

“A heist, he says,” Jack rumbled, over the earpiece. “What does this kid know about heists? Get rid of him.” 

“And now it’s ours. As I recall, we did most of the legwork here,” Ray reminded him, ignoring Jack. “I’m pretty sure that reasons at least a seventy-thirty split.” 

“Don’t - don’t _reason_ with him!” Gavin burst out. 

Michael frowned, mostly just to stop the smile that was tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Sixty-forty.” 

Ray grinned and lowered his gun, and Michael was struck by how laid-back he seemed even now, with sirens wailing in the distance and his partner ready to pull the trigger. “Sixty-five/thirty-five. Final offer.” 

“Suck my dick.” 

Ray shrugged. “I mean, usually I’d like to get to know you better first, but...” He raised his gun again, and Michael’s breath caught in his throat, but before anyone could make a move, a voice shouted out over the radio, so loud that both Gavin and Ray wince and flinched, and Michael was able to hear every word from five feet away. “DON’T SHOOT HIM!” 

“Jee-sus, G, what the hell?” Gavin exclaimed, clapping one hand over his ear. 

“I said don’t fucking shoot him. I like him.” G sounded - well, he sounded excited, and it threw Ray off more than a little bit. “I like him,” he said again. “Bring him in.” 

Ray hesitated, and then turned to walk away a few paces, gesturing for Gavin to keep Michael where he stood. “Like - like, bring him in on his feet, or...” 

He could almost hear G shrugging at the end of the line. “Whatever tickles your toes, buddy.” 

Ray nodded, as if the gents could see him, and turned back to the others. Michael still stood there, pressed against the counter, caught between the desire to run and sheer curiousity. He met Gavin’s gaze, who nodded, too. Ray looked at Michael, and smiled. “You’re gonna come with us now, ‘kay?” 

“Like hell I am,” Michael spat, but then, he didn’t have much choice in the matter before Gav cracked him in the temple with the butt of his gun, and everything swirled into blackness. 

 

“This was such a fucking mistake.”

They’d managed to wrangle Michael into the backseat of the car, where he lay partly on the floor, far from graceful. His head flopped around with every turn. For safety’s sake, and probably at least for some theatrics, Gavin had insisted on sticking his head in a burlap sack and tying his hands behind his back. 

Except they didn’t have a burlap sack, or even rope, and they were running out of time even with Jack fucking with the LSPD. So there was a paper bag on the man’s head instead, a hasty slit cut in the front for breathing, and Michael’s hands were bound with the drawstring of his own sweater. 

Ray looked back at their human cargo, and shook his head in complete disbelief. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever been a part of,” he continued, half laughing. 

“Nah,” Gavin said. 

“You know that sweater isn’t gonna hold for a second when he wakes up.” 

Gav shrugged. “Ah, well.” 

“Vav -” 

“Oh my god, I just wanna go home. We’re followin’ orders here, who cares how we do it? G wants to see him. I want to see bevs and my bed. And you - had probably better see a pack of frozen peas, or somethin’.” 

Ray made a noise of agreement, and rubbed tenderly at his jaw, where an ugly bruise was forming. If G was still looking for someone with ‘brute force’ as their skillset, he’d certainly found his man. 

HQ was the penthouse of a tall skyscraper in downtown Los Santos, a real classy place with a view of the entire city and a good chunk of Vinewood, too. 

Michael came to in the backseat just as Gavin pulled into the private underground parking garage. “Oh - fuck.” 

“Don’t try and sit up too fast,” Ray warned, but Michael was already trying to haul himself upright, shaking his head to dislodge the bag and groaning in pain every time. “Get this thing off me!” he shouted, his voice muffled. “There’s no fucking air!” 

Ray reached back and ripped the bag off of Michael’s head, and grimaced. Gavin’s work in knocking the man out hadn’t been pretty - there was a significant cut near his forehead, leaking blood all down the side of his face and matting in his hair. “Hoo, boy. Jack’s gonna wanna check you out when we get upstairs. What’s your name again?” 

Michael stared. These assholes had straight-up robbed a liquor store, killed a man, kidnapped him, and tied him up in the back of their car… and the British one was listening to classical music on the radio and the other was asking his name and smiling at him like they were all on a pleasant country drive together. It was beyond bizarre, but what choice did he have but to play along? At least the Hispanic dude was funny. “Michael,” he said finally. 

“Just Michael?” 

“Just Michael.” 

Ray grinned. “I’m Ray, and that’s Gavin. I get that this isn’t the most friendly welcome -” 

Michael laughed, short and bitter. “No shit.” 

“- but hey, I promise we’re all gonna get along real nice. G wants to meet you hella bad, and that means a hell of a lot to anyone who knows the guy.” 

Michael frowned. “Who the hell is G?” 

“Ah, you’ll find out.” This was the British one, Gavin, speaking as he pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. “Sorry about your head, there. Nothin’ Jack can’t fix up, though. You alright to walk?” 

A quick internal assessment told Michael that no, he probably wouldn’t be that good at walking at all right now, but he didn’t think this situation called for admitting any weaknesses, so he nodded and pretended that the whole world didn’t reel when he did so. Ray and Gavin got out, and dragged him out of the car, each grasping an arm. Michael, to his credit, only sagged a little. “Can I have my hands back?” 

Ray thought for a moment. “Yeah. Might as well. We uh - we took your gun and your wallet and shit. Sorry. Just a precaution. Don’t try and run though, okay? If nothing else, when this is all over we’ll give you a ride to the clinic.” 

“I can’t go to a hospital,” Michael admitted, as Gavin fumbled with the knot he’d tied. “Someone’ll recognize me.” 

Gavin laughed. “Not the hospital. Jus’ a lil’ clinic some of our more - er. Illicit friends run. Totally confidential. Christ, this is hard.” 

Ray rolled his eyes, and sawed through the string with a quick flick of a pocket knife. Michael rubbed at his wrists where the fibers had dug into his skin, wincing. “No offence,” he said to Ray, “but is he retarded?” 

“Oi!” Gavin shouted, and Ray laughed, so loud and so genuinely that Michael couldn’t keep from grinning with him. 

“Almost. Come on up, we shouldn’t keep anyone waiting.” 

They stepped into the elevator, Gavin sulking away behind them. Michael forced himself to feel at ease - or at least, as much as possible. Whatever was going on here, Ray at least seemed like a cool guy, and the whole situation didn’t stink of danger… it felt, more than anything, like an opportunity, and if there was one thing Michael could use right now it was a fresh start. 

Another fresh start. He was pretty sure he was on his third now, but who was counting? 

The elevator slid smoothly to the top floor of the building, and when they emerged there were only two doors in the very short hallway - one of them marked ROOF ACCESS and the other an ordinary door. Ray knocked a few times, and then let himself in. Gavin gestured for Michael to go first, but he only made it a few paces in the door before he had to stop - in part to lean against the nearest wall for a break, but mostly because he couldn’t believe the size of the room he was looking at. It had to be the full top floor of the building, with windows wrapped all around, providing him with a breathtaking view of the city - the Vinewood sign shone even in the darkness, and the buildings glittered. Dark leather couches lay around the room, and a massive television, and a gleaming kitchen and a remarkable collection of alcohol bottles... 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a place as nice as this. Maybe he never had. 

“Lads!” a warm voice said, and a large man with an even larger beard came trundling into the foyer, arms spread. Ray ducked out of a hug but managed to clap the bear-like man on the shoulder as he passed. “You got the shit?” 

“Yeah, man. I can’t thank you enough for the computer thing. You’re the man.” 

“Cheers, mate,” Gavin agreed, grinning. 

The bearded man turned his gaze upon Michael, who still leaned against the wall, tense and hesitant. His face fell, and he let out a low whistle. “Oh man. I should really take a look at your head - Jack Pattillo. And you…?” 

Self-consciously, Michael raised his hand to brush against the injury there, wincing. Was it really that bad? “Michael.” 

“He won’t tell us his last time,” Ray explained, from the couch. 

Michael glared. “Yeah, and you won’t tell me what I’m doing here at all.” 

“That,” a new voice said, “is for you and I to discuss.” 

In hindsight, Michael kind of wished he had said something more impressive. Something worthy of a man coming face to face with San Andreas' most infamous crime lord. Something that would show no fear, no awe, nothing the other men in the room could have expected out of a chubby little newcomer like him. But when he saw the scruffy goatee under the moustache, saw the tattoo sleeve peeking out of the other man’s jacket cuffs, all he could manage was, _"Goeff?"_

For a moment, both men stood in silence, each completely taken aback by the other's appearance. And then, Geoff began to laugh. 

He had aged considerably since the turn of the century, finally filling out in the shoulders and growing an elaborate, magnificent moustache to make up for the stubble on his chin. His eyes were still tired, but they were bright with mischief, too, and he carried himself with more confidence than any man Michael had ever met - even Flynt. And no wonder - the king of Los Santos, standing among his people, was allowed to be a little arrogant from time to time. He'd never been able to put a face to the name splashed across the news so often, the man was so elusive, but in reality he’d known him all along. 

"God damn, dude. What are the fucking odds?” He strode forwards, ignoring the baffled looks of his crew members, and stuck out a hand for Michael to shake. “I thought I recognized those freckles. Say, did you ever stand up to the chick who gave you that shiner?” 

“Actually,” Michael admitted. “I told my mom. She lost her mind at the teacher. Nobody talked to me for a month, called me a snitch.” Nobody but Flynt and his boys, that was. 

“Well you were,” Geoff said reasonably. “Does that mean we should be being more careful here? You’re not a rat anymore, huh?” 

“Not even a little bit.” 

“Well, I guess not. You’re lucky, kid, lucky you were where you were when you were. Speaking of -” 

He turned to Gavin, snapping his fingers, and he immediately reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of hard whiskey they must have grabbed on the way out. Michael watched, impressed, as Geoff cracked open the bottle and took a long swig straight from it. He barely even grimaced. “God. Come sit.” 

He was speaking to Michael, but the rest of the crew fell into place after them - not out of fear, but out of respect. Geoff passed his bottle around to the others, and all but Ray took a sip with considerably less grace than their boss had. Ray, meanwhile, hunched over a glass bong. “Do you want a hit?” he asked, as Michael sat beside him. 

“Not really my thing, sorry.” 

Ray shrugged. “More for me, I guess.” 

Jack hauled himself to his feet, only to return a minute later with a box of pizza and a six-pack. Michael took a slice and a can, and for a little while he sat and watched while the others ate and chatted amicably. Ray, a slow grin on his face, began methodically counting out the cash. Michael thought about demanding his cut, but he was too content to really care, too busy languishing in the friendly environment that he’d been deprived of for so many months. 

Ever since leaving Flynt, all Michael had done with himself was shit around - crashing on couches, picking up odd jobs that were less than legal, and generally being as lonely as could be. The only friend he’d had in over a year was a goldfish, won at a state fair, and it had been the happiest day he could remember - cotton candy, lousy rigged games, the works. How fucking pathetic was that? He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had smiled at him, really genuinely smiled, before tonight. But these men were treating him like they were brothers, all of them - all of them but Geoff, who was squinting at him like a job interviewer over what was now a mostly-empty bottle. 

He leaned forwards over the coffee table, his fingers steepled in front of his moustache. “Where do you see yourself in five years, Michael?” 

Michael snorted, but his grin faded when he realized Geoff was serious. “God, I don’t know. Dead, maybe. Or back in Jersey, but I’d rather be dead.” 

“No job?” Geoff prompted. “No family? You could go back to school - you gotta be, what, twenty-five? Or there’s the army.” He smiled. “I was in the army once. It’s not a bad gig.” 

“I uh - I dunno. I have a bit of a record, just little shit, but I doubt they’d take me anyway.” He hunched his shoulders, trying to silence the worries that had been plaguing him since he ditched Flynt - hell, since high school. He wasn’t going anywhere, really, not at this rate. There was nothing out there for him. At this rate, he really would end up dead… 

He almost missed Geoff’s next sentence - almost. “What?” 

“Do you want to work with us?” he asked again. “I won’t ask you again.” 

However loud his brain had been a minute ago, it was dead silent now. “Are you serious?” 

Geoff’s eyes twinkled, and beside him Jack was grinning outright. “Totally. We could use a guy like you - to tell ya the truth, I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a couple of months now, since the gas station thing - that was you, wasn’t it? You and Coal? Betcha didn’t even recognize the place - it’s where we first met.” 

Michael wasn’t sure what unnerved him more - the fact that Geoff had been watching him, the fact that he knew who Flynt was, or the memory of the gas station resurfacing. He just nodded. 

“So you can rig up some pretty sweet explosives - and you’ve got experience, which is refreshing.” 

“I used to be the explosives guy,” Gavin mumbled into his beer, sounding sulky. 

Ray laughed. “You learned everything you know from WikiHow and nearly killed yourself multiple times.” 

“Frankly,” Jack said dryly, “I think that would have been an improvement on the crew as a whole.” 

Gavin threw a pen at him. It lodged itself neatly in his beard, and Ray roared with laughter. 

“So what do you think? We offer the best salary a guy can ask for, and - well, you can probably guess at the kind of benefits you’d get.” Arrogance suited Geoff, Michael thought, a thousand times better than Flynt. 

He couldn’t deny he liked the guy - and the others weren’t bad, either. Every logical part of him was ready to accept right then and there, but his skin still prickled with unease. He didn’t get this lucky - he just didn’t. “What, just like that?” he asked, already kicking himself. “I say yes, and that’s it - all your secrets, all your plans open to me.” 

“More or less.” 

“No background checks?” 

“No.” 

“So you’re just gonna take the word of a guy you just met, and immediately trust the hell out of him.” 

Geoff looked at him very closely. “Is there any reason you know of that I shouldn’t trust you?” he asked calmly. 

“No. I just thought the Crime King of San Andreas might be a bit more thorough in his job hunt.” 

“Hmm,” Geoff said. The room was very quiet after that, except for the low murmur of the television and the bubbling of Ray’s bong. 

Michael clicked his teeth, and tried not to look to petulant - or too afraid. “So are you going to whack me now, or something?” 

“Absolutely not. The offer still stands. I’d love to work with you, Michael. I’ll give you the night to think about it, huh? Jack’ll show you to our guest room, won’t ya buddy?” 

“Isn’t someone gonna drive me home? Tie me up again, maybe?” 

“God, no!” Geoff looked scandalized. “In case you haven’t noticed, you fucker, we’ve all been drinking.” He kicked at an empty bottle on the floor. “We may be disgusting, heartless criminals, but shit - we’re not assholes.” 

Later, after Jack had taken a look at his forehead, and after they had said their goodnights, they set off into the depths of the penthouse. “You’re pushing your luck with the snark, kid,” he said, as he lead Michael to his room. “But I like you.” 

“It’s too good to be true, that’s all.” Michael shrugged. “And I just wish I could go home.” 

Jack squinted at him. “Gavin is about your size, if you wanna get out of those clothes-” 

“No, it’s not that - never mind.” 

“No, what?” Jack stopped walking, and Michael was forced to stop too, full of regret. 

“Uh -” 

“Dude.” 

He sighed. “I have this goldfish,” he admitted. “Swimmy. And I forgot to feed his stupid ass this morning, and I don’t want him to die - stop laughing!” 

“I’m not laughing!” Jack swore, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, man. Those guys can go more than one measly day without eating.” He took a few more steps and gestured to a door identical to every other one they’d passed. “This is you. Breakfast is usually around ten or eleven. I’ll come get’cha before then.” He gave Michael a significant look. “Think about it, okay?” 

Michael almost smiled - almost. “About what, breakfast?” 

“Ha, ha.” Jack shoved him into the room - a plain, dark bedroom, basic and musty-smelling - and closed the door behind him. He heard the lock click, and he was alone. 

 

-

 

When Michael woke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was a stack of clothes - his clothes - settled on a chair beside the bed.

The second thing was Swimmy, zipping happily about in his bowl on the bedside table without a car in the world. Fresh food was still floating on the water’s surface. 

He kicked his covers off and dressed quickly, running over the events of the last 24 hours in his mind. This time last morning, he was waking up in his shitty Chamberlain Hills apartment, his future just as bleak and unsatisfying as it had been the day before, and his nerves already jittery for the robbery he had planned for that night. But today - today he could become part of the Fake AH crew, something every criminal from shoplifters to kingpin drug dealers only ever dreamed of. He could be working alongside Geoff Ramsey himself - he could have friends and money and the kind of luxury he’d never dared to dream of. 

All they asked of him was the same destructive skills that had murdered two men and still kept him up at night. 

A knock on the door made him look up. “Come in.” 

Jack cracked the door open and peeked in. “It’s breakfast. Gav’s making it, though, so I’d be careful if I were you - anyway. Geoff wants to talk to you first.” 

An unexpected jolt of nervousness fluttered in his belly. “Oh. Well, I’ll be out in sec -” 

“Sure thing. Take your time.” The door clicked shut again. 

Michael wandered over to the bureau and frowned at his reflection - at the dried blood still crusted in his hair, and the angry red cut by his temple, and the dark circles under his eyes - one night of comfort couldn’t make up for over a year of stress and sleepless nights. 

But it was a beautiful goddamn thing, anyway. 

He fluffed his hair and combed it down again with his fingers, gnawing on his bottom lip. It wasn’t until Jack knocked on the door again that he started into action. “I’m coming, Jesus.” He yanked the door open. 

“Hey, no wanking in my guest room.” Geoff was grinning at him, leaning up against the far wall. “We’ve got girls for that.” 

“Sounds pretty scummy to me,” Michael thought aloud. 

Geoff raised his hands defensively. “Hey buddy, there’s no shame in sex work. I’m nothing if not a feminist, but...” He shook his head. “That ain’t what I’m here to talk about. Do you have an answer for me?” 

Michael stared at the ceiling, his brow furrowed. “I -” He stopped, and looked him dead in the eye, swallowing. “I killed those guys, Geoff. At the gas station. That was me. I didn’t mean to, but I did - you really want a guy like that on your team?” 

Geoff spread his hands. “Everybody makes mistakes. Some are worse than others. But that’s over now. What I’m looking at here is what you can do for us today - and what we could do for you.” His eyes grew sad, just for a second. “You’re a good kid, Michael. A good criminal. What you did for the families of your friends… we can give you a good life, here. As good as a guy like you is ever gonna get. And believe me - we want you here. We really do. No matter what shit you’ve been through, no matter what kind of fuckin’ demons you’ve got on your back, all of that goes away today.” He paused. “If you want it.” 

For a long moment, Michael was quiet, thinking about Geoff’s earnest expression and the cockroach he’d found last week in his fridge, about how friendly everyone had been last night and about his shifty, shitty, rightfully suspicious landlord. 

“Fine.” 

Geoff’s expression lit up.”Really?” 

“Yeah, fine, I’m in.” To his own surprise, relief coursed through his limbs. “I’d be a fucking idiot to turn it down, anyway.” 

“Yeah, you would.” Geoff strode forwards, clapped him on the back, and then pulled him into a tight hug. “You’ve made the right choice here, Mike. Really. Now come on - let’s go tell the rest of the family the good news.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to everyone who commented and gave kudos on the last chapter! it made my day, really. forgive me for being sluggish, i'll try and get the next chunk out asap!! i'm vvvv excited about this fic and i definitely have a lot in store, it's just a matter of putting fingers to keys. prompts and suggestions are always welcome :0 xx

**Author's Note:**

> ive wanted to take a stab at something like this for a really long time... hope you enjoyed! there's lots more to come, as this was kind of like a prologue... next chapter the action really starts! 
> 
> Xx


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